Reading the Russian
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: A little NapoleonIllya story ...


"Reading the Russian"

By Mary Catherine Marshall

Some people would tell you that Illya Kuryakin is completely unreadable. Blank. Unemotional. The original Ice Prince.

And, some people would be correct. If you don't know my partner then you'd never be able to figure out what's going on behind that calm façade, under that mop of blond hair.

I, on the other hand, can read him. Like the proverbial book. True, it's taken years of observation, trial-and-error, and the occasional wild guess, but I've got the cagy Russian figured. Seriously.

Take this afternoon as a prime example. We'd just returned from what we Section 2 agents call a 'milk run.' Why the Old Man felt compelled to send his top two agents on nothing more than a baby setting assignment, I have no idea, but that's what we were handed.

She, it's always a she, was 21 years old, blonde, winsome, but built like a … okay, you get my drift … and the daughter of the Secretary of State. Our little princess had taken a fancy to a long-haired, guitar playing, poet from her university. Said long-haired, guitar playing, poet enticed the little princess to ditch school and head to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, which she did without thought to the consequences.

Now, Illya will tell you that I'm not much on consequences, either, so flying to San Francisco, following a trail a two-year-old could decipher, retrieving the little princess, dispatching the long-haired, guitar playing, poet, and returning to New York via Washington, D.C. was about 48-hours of little fun and a lot of games. Okay, there was a brief interlude of minor trouble in there, but it was, trust me, minor.

Did I mention that Illya hates having fun in any quantity and despises games? Well, consider yourself told.

Add to that the fact that he was required to portray an equally long-haired, guitar playing, poet in order to snare the original long-haired, guitar playing poet, and you've got one pissed off Russian. The conversation went something like this …

I settle into my seat, order drinks, and flirt with the stewardess, who seems more than receptive. "Illya, one of us has to play the role of a hippy. We need to get as close to Chrissy as possible."

"I would think that 'getting as close as possible' to a winsome blonde would be found in your job description." (Turns to window, closes eyes, pretends to sleep.)

The drinks arrive accompanied by a cocktail napkin with a telephone number written in florid purple ink. I smile. The stewardess smiles. "Under other circumstances, I would take the lead in this assignment."

Illya curls into a neat little ball, doing his best to ignore me. I poke him with my elbow. "I ordered you vodka, frozen." The word 'vodka' gets his attention. I should also note that there is little on the planet that can garner Illya's attention like vodka, frozen, or food, of any variety. He uncurls, smiles at the glass, and takes a sip. "Why do I sense that that role will fall to me, Napoleon?"

"Because, tovarisch, one of us looks like a Wall Street Banker and the other of us doesn't."

Illya bestows the famous 'arched eyebrow' and I grin. "I am led to ask this question, Napoleon," he says, ignoring my grin, "your place in this assignment would be …?"

"Ah, my place in this assignment," I answer, sipping my Scotch and winking at a second stewardess who smiles not at me, but at my partner. Can't win 'em all. "I will be your back-up should anything go amiss." Illya ignores the stacked red head, as always.

"And, as we both know, something always goes amiss." The famous, patented, Russian 'mood' falls into place with a resounding thud.

My hand flutters to my chest. "Partner mine, I am shocked that you would suggest such a thing!" There is just the hint of a smile on the stoic Russian face. And, friends, when I say 'just a hint', I mean you have be watching like a hawk or you'll miss it.

Illya, who is more often right about such things, was right about this assignment. Within a few hours of our arrival in San Francisco, he had discovered the location of our little princess, gotten himself into a fix with the long-haired, guitar playing, poet's Thrush accomplices, and managed to damage one of my suits as I rescued him and the winsome blonde. It was Illya's fault. Honestly.

In truth, Illya wasn't that much the worse for wear after his few hours as a guest of Thrush. A bruise on his right cheek, a bloody nose, a black eye, a minor concussion, and some size 12 boot prints on his ribs, hardly qualify as 'injuries' to we Section 2 agents. But, Illya can play a paper cut until the right people are convinced that he's got an arterial bleed.

Chrissy, winsome (did I mention that?), young, and impressionable, fell into the 'right people' category. She spent the entire flight back to Washington, D.C. in a private jet courtesy of daddy-dearest, fawning over Illya. Something he obviously enjoyed.

Even more, he enjoyed casting less than surreptitious glances my way, suggesting that sometimes the long-haired, guitar playing, poet wins the day with the winsome blonde.

The lovely Chrissy was handed over to her loving father, hand shakes all around, and we returned to New York. The Secretary's more than momentary frown at my partner was not lost on me. After all, Illya stood before the Secretary, winsome blonde draped seductively over his slender, blond body, while dressed as a slightly disheveled and bloody hippy. It was clear that although the Secretary was grateful that we had returned his daughter relatively unharmed, he was not impressed with our method of costuming.

I suggested that to my partner as we returned to New York, but he was unconvinced.

"Perhaps, Napoleon, he was concerned that his darling daughter was in the company of a Wall Street Banker attired in a torn, stained, and damaged suit." Illya arranged himself, prone, on one of the small couches, yawned, and closed his eyes. "Perhaps he was concerned by the predatory gleam in your eye."

"Me? It was you she was draped all over! It was you she kissed with a good deal more skill than a young woman her age should possess! It was you …" His snore ended my eloquent defense.

Tonight I stopped by his apartment, concerned that those size 12 boots had done more than a little damage, although my partner refused to remain in medical. At Illya's front door, I could discern his mood by the music filtering into the hallway from his stereo system.

The only thing that Illya has to show for his years in America, the only thing that might passably be considered decadent (other than excessively long, hot showers) is his stereo system and his jazz record collection.

I stood quietly, listening to Judy Garland croon her way through "The Man That Got Away," and decided that my unreadable partner was just fine.


End file.
